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I'm Meaghan.
I'm a comic, actress, spinal cord injury survivor & wheelchair BAMF.

Short musings on myself and pop culture.
Beauty and fashion opinions.
Other rad stuff.

See the cute button on the top left'? Follow me on Twitter by clicking it, sweetie. ;D

Don’t Touch My Wheelchair (Don’t Touch My Shit)

If you’ve ever taken a disability sensitivity class, you have heard this: “Don’t lean or touch a wheelchair user’s wheelchair. That wheelchair is a part of their body.”

So I use a wheelchair to get around. I adore my wheelchair in the way that I love computer or my van. This whole “my chair is a part of my body” line of reason is strange. I’m not a robot.

Don’t lean on some stranger’s wheelchair. Why? Because it’s rude. It’s not your property.

If a stranger is leaning on my chair I’m not offended because I feel like they are touching me. I get irritated because they are touching my shit.

It’s the same feeling you get when you see some yokel leaning against your car. You think, “What the fuck, man…” & give him a dirty look and move on with your life.

Just because I’m in my chair for 12-14 hours a day doesn’t mean I have some hippie-dippie connection to it. With that same logic those of you who sleep in a bed for hours on end each night, do you feel that bed is a part of your body? You certainly spend enough time with it.

Telling able-bodied people that a wheelchair user views their mobility device as an extension of their body makes all wheelchair users seem crazy.

It’s all about not touching our shit, man.

Beauty is Hard Work…

Before Makeup/Hair.
After + Instagram.
After + photo shoot.*

*Andres Farfan

Beauty is Hard Work…

Before Makeup/Hair.
After + Instagram.
After + photo shoot.*

*Andres Farfan

If I could change anything…

It has been my childhood dream to speak just like Dolly Parton. Scientifically, she has the most adorable sounding voice and laugh of any human being ever.

It’s my dream to move somewhere new where nobody knows anything about me & reinvent myself. Well, reinvent my speaking voice.

Just imagine me— gosh I’m so adorable already. So little and plucky— always wearing cute little dresses. Sitting in my wheelchair.With my bangs. I have a pet cockatiel! I’m darling.

Now imagine you’ve never seen me before and I come into your town—your Starbucks and I order a Iced Soy Green Tea Latte in my new Dolly Parton voice! Wouldn’t you just die…! Wouldn’t you just fall in love with me? OK. Now imagine this: I’m also fluent in Spanish.

I have some studying to do to make this a 2014 year resolution.

Oh. And I’ll have to rename my cockatiel from Butters to Señor Beauregard.

Dumbo II

Can Disney please make a sequel to Dumbo? Cos I have a lot of questions about what happened to Dumbo. Does he retain the ability to fly as an adult?

Dumbo was a child star and we all know some children have certain skills (like acting) or illnesses (like asthma) that they can out grow. Dumbo grows up to be worse than Lindsay Lohan & Amanda Bynes put together.

Dumbo’s got a super complicated relationship with his in & out of jail mother that he’ll need Dr. Phil to work out these issues. See, Dumbo will show up because he thinks the show will be all about what a crap mom she is— but it’s really an intervention. For Dumbo.

Timothy Mouse is there. Crying. And all the crows are there. Crying too. But in a real racist way.

Dumbo will go to rehab with that drunk mouse from Alice in Wonderland. When he gets out, he’ll be appearing on Dancing with the Stars.

This sequel has got to win an Oscar so it’s going to be gritty. Dumbo relapses, dies of alcohol poisoning, like 68 times the legal limit.

It ends with It ends with Dumbo’s spirit ascending to the heavens, while Elton John’s reworked Candle in the Wind (again), “Goodbye Flying Elephant” plays.



My whole life I have been burdened with the weight of and extra A & H.

The spelling of my name has baffled every receptionist of every doctor’s office I’ve ever been a patient of.
“I’m sorry, your name is M-E-G-A-N?”
“No. M-E-A-G-H-A-N.”
“Oh. Ok.”

It has perplexed every teacher on the first day of school.
“Mahgahn Gallagher?”
“… Meaghan. Like: May-gen.”

”God daaaaamn, girl.”


I was named after the character Meghann Cleary of the blockbuster eighties miniseries “The Thorn Birds”. If you’re not familiar with the story, let me fill you in… Meggie Cleary is a beautiful tomboy from New Zealand with daddy issues. After moving to Australia, she matures into a beautiful woman and begins a forbidden romance with a Vatican priest, Father Ralph. Ralph never chooses Meg over God but strings her along for about 40 years. They have a love child. The Thorn Birds is truly a miserable series. My mother and father’s life has been without romantic strife— they have been together since 1968 and have been married since 1971. Now that I think about it, “The Thorn Birds” was kind of “The Twilight” of it’s day. In 2011, I definitely would have been named “Bella”.

Thank God they didn’t choose the spelling “Meghann” (I hope this spelling is outlawed by New Zealand, by the way) I could never explain the extra “n”. My parents being Democrats & huge Kennedy supporters— took the spelling from Robert F. Kennedy’s eldest daughter, Meaghan Ann Kennedy. Meaghan Ann? Kind of redundant. So they went with Meaghan Rose, allegedly saying “if it’s good enough for the Kennedy’s, it’s good enough for our daughter…!” My parents love me lots.


Like in “The Thorn Birds” they even called me “Meggie” from birth till 9 years old. They called me “Meaghan” from then on. So far, being named after the doomed protagonist in “The Thorn Birds” has cursed me. As an adult I have only truly been in love once, to an emotionally available man, married to his work. Ugh. Thanks mom! Thanks dad!


And those extra letters… fill me with anxiety every time I make an appointment. I always thought maybe my life would be easier if the spelling was “Megan”. Deep down, I’ve always been jealous of those “Megan’s”

Today I ran into a “Megan” at Walgreens and I joked about how lucky she must be because of the spelling of her name. How easy her life must be. She told me that her whole life has been spent correcting people who have been adding letters to her name.

I guess whether the spelling is Meaghan, Megan, Megyn, etc we all carry the responsibility of clarifying our names with grace.

”That’s M-E-Y-G-A-N, Officer.”


Beard Do’s and Don’t’s


Recently HuffScience posted the results of an Australian study that found women dig facial hair. Heavy stubble and full beards kicked clean shaven/light stubble’s ass! I don’t understand why they decided to use the above photo— especially with that dumdum haircut.

I’m into guys with facial hair. Usually guys that look like terrorists, but that’s another topic I should explore in another blog. I really don’t enjoy making out with a clean shaven guy. Have you ever? It’s a painful experience. Plus Heavy stubble/bearded men usually have cool jobs that don’t dictate how much hair they’re allowed to have on their face.  Or they’re unemployeed. Unemployment is almost as bad as a clean shaven face.
Today there exist beards that give beards a bad name. Certain beards had their important moment in history and must be retired.
Abraham Lincoln was the only man who could pull off a chin curtain beard and not look skeezy. Please let it go. A chin strap beard in 2013 isn’t distinguished, it’s incomplete and in need of a trim.
Karl Marx’s beard was out of control. Marx was far too busy writing Communist manifestos— a great excuse for poor grooming! Unless you’re overseeing a dynasty of ducks, you have plenty of time for manscaping.
A beard is a privilege. It is your responsibility as a man to treat it with respect. If you’re so careless with your beard, how will you treat me? ::gasp!::
Then there is the the over-enthusiastic bearded man who sees in his face the potential to recreate Van Gogh’s Starry Night. If you want to put designs on your face, go to a carnival and get a flower or a rainbow painted on your face. A cry for help. That’s truly ehat these intricate designs are. Without intervention? Next step: face tattoo.

Because I love them so much, beards ignite this fire within me. Admire my favorite beard on (my latest crush) filmmaker Vikram Ghandi. I have to say, the saddest moment in Kumaré was when Vikram completely shaved off his beard. I was pulling for heavy stubble.
Beard Responsibility Is Hot.

Bureaucratic Days… Government Nights.

The two qualities that every government office shares is odor and color.

Glade has engineered a Danky & Musky scent that truly is the signature of bureaucracy. It is designed to overwhelm the poor citizen with a sense of helplessness and encourage that person who needs assistance to stay away.

Government offices have only been painted once, in 1982, one coat of Death Mask Beige. Never again. Close inspection of a waiting room wall unveils scratches, pen marks, & dried blood. Another not so subliminal message to stay away.

I’ve been stuck in the waiting rooms of many bureaucratic offices over the last 8 years. Waiting to meet with counselors whose interest in helping me has varied from “I’m incompetent (and probably impotent).” to “I want to help you, but once your paperwork leaves my desk it ends up on the desk of someone higher than me who doesn’t give a fuck about anything.” Every so often the stars align and I have ended up with wonderful counselors— like the counselor I currently have in Gainesville. Having a counselor that not only processes important paperwork but returns emails and (that old timey medium of the 20th Century) phone calls is like getting great service AND great food at Denny’s. It is a beautiful rarity. It’s also very stressful and I keep waiting for the day when, out of nowhere, my wonderful counselor is suddenly replaced by a cruel troll that never mails by authorization and refuses to process my faxes.

If you ever find yourself in one of these offices, don’t let the smell or dried blood scare you away. That’s what they want. Like bears, they smell fear. Just wait patiently till your name is called and fill out a comment card.

Bureaucratic Days… Government Nights

Bureaucratic Days… Government Nights